


Intricate Rituals

by incoherent_icarus_works



Category: The Owl House (Cartoon)
Genre: F/F, Rowing AU, Skarscha empire baybeeee, oh wow sports!, the inherent homoeroticism of team sports, we said we're gonna build this boat with our bare hands so i decided to make some damn boats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-25 18:55:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30093597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incoherent_icarus_works/pseuds/incoherent_icarus_works
Summary: "Boscha and Skara working in tandem were entirely unmatched, almost in a class of their own. They operated with a familiarity that was far beyond their three seasons together, and if their teammates suspected anything, they never voiced it aloud. Whatever it was between them, it was working. They were winning. And they couldn't afford to jinx themselves again. Not by disrupting this delicate dance between captain and coxswain, and not by questioning the chemistry that had gotten them to a championship."ORThe Rowing AU where Skara and Boscha break some rules and commit some blasphemies.
Relationships: Boscha/Skara (The Owl House)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 22
Collections: Owl House Fics





	Intricate Rituals

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hyacinth (Lexa_Alycia)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexa_Alycia/gifts).



At the start line, Boscha Stryder and Skara Jubal commit their first blasphemy together. 

It’s nothing prosecutable, since the sport of rowing has no official doctrine. But many teams, including their own, are superstitious to the point of occultism. Numerous rituals and traditions muddy the water between recreation and religion, especially on race days. From a long history of wealthy patrons and stuffy sports clubs, the competitions have an oppressive list of expectations: No deviations from perfect uniform, no first names spoken on race days, no carbs after 10am, and no teenage tomfoolery ever. But as always, there are exceptions to the rules, and those exceptions are currently sitting in the stern of Hexside’s varsity boat on a perfectly placid state championship racecourse.

Boscha has her oar handle in her lap and is looking expectantly at Skara. The space between stroke and the cox seat is miniscule, a matter of inches, but Boscha can't bridge the gap.

"Jubal?" she asks, louder this time.

Skara's eyes and mind are elsewhere, gazing out over their playing field. Orderly buoys mark lanes like pews in the water, creating a straightaway for each team. The other boats are in various stages of arrival and alignment, fighting the currents to get their vessels parallel to the lanes. Hexside’s boat, the Banshee, is the only one sitting at the ready. Skara had seen to that. She had delicately directed them into place, steering the boat and calling out maneuvers with the confidence of a conductor, taking in the notes of water and wind and spinning them into harmony. Now, that confidence had all but faded. Skara was staring at their rivals, Glandus, with a telling tension in her shoulders. 

She had been here before, exactly one year ago. In this lane precisely, with nearly this same lineup. She had been confident then, too. But ultimately it hadn't served her any good. They had been beaten. Badly. What felt like miles of open water had stretched between them and Glandus as the latter had rolled over the finish line, a gulf of humiliation separating Hexside from what they thought was a sure victory. The Banshee's hubris had gotten the better of them, jinxing their efforts.This setup was a sick iconography of that day, and Skara knew it. 

The only difference between then and now was Boscha. 

She had previously been hidden in bow pair, tucked away in the seat known for flawless technique and flagging power. Now, though, she was in stern. Stroke seat. The position reserved for only the most disciplined, decisive, and daunting of athletes. Stroke seat sets the tempo for the entire boat, each rower following the direction of their leader. 

If Skara was their conductor, then Boscha was their percussion. Steady, powerful, authoritative. The two of them working in tandem were entirely unmatched, almost in a class of their own. They understood each other's strengths and weaknesses, habits and idiosyncrasies. They operated with a familiarity that was far beyond their three seasons together, and if their teammates suspected anything, they never voiced it aloud. Whatever it was between them, it was working. They were winning. And they couldn't afford to jinx themselves again. Not by disrupting this delicate dance between captain and coxswain, not by questioning the chemistry that had gotten them to a championship, and certainly not by allowing Skara to psych herself out ten minutes before the race.

Boscha swallows hard. "Pipes?" she tries quietly, hesitating. 

It doesn't break the rule of no first names on race day, but it feels like a heresy all the same. It’s a name spoken only after the sun goes down. It's whispered in empty parking lots after practices, snuck into unsuspecting ears between classes, and breathed out above tangled limbs during nightmares.

Skara's head whips back into the boat. 

Her eyes meet Boscha's and a pulse of _something_ flickers between them. 

"You good?" Boscha asks, her words casual but her tone anything but.

Skara blinks and the tension melts from her shoulders. Those blue eyes ground her back in the present, gently pulling her from the past.

"I'm fine," she says simply, a lie that they both know like the back of their hands.

Boscha nods, but knows to keep her talking. 

"How's it looking?" she asks louder. That flicker of something is saved for later, after they see checkered flags. 

At the question, Skara slips back into coxswain mode. Her gaze shifts out of the boat to check the competition again.

"Nice tailwind, Southside's cox looks pretty green, and Glandus' bow pair keeps fidgeting."

Boscha snorts. "Rookies."

Skara smiles at that, confidence returning. "I feel good about this one, Stryder. We've got decent weather, a good boat, a great lineup..." 

Skara trails off as her eyes return to the boat and slide over Boscha’s form in a way that makes the other girl stiffen and melt all at once.

"Plus you,” Skara continues, “All that combined, we can at least take silver."

Pink rises in Boscha's cheeks that has nothing to do with the scalding sun beating down overhead. 

"Mhmmm," Boscha nods slowly, processing the information. The compliment is left hanging in the air, unacknowledged but not unnoticed. Instead, her eyelids slide shut and she tips her head back, unseeing eyes turned to the skies. She breathes deeply, taking in the tension on the breeze.

Skara watches, her anxiety long forgotten now, as she's spellbound by that strong jawline and smattering of freckles. There's always a moment before the race where something inside Boscha shifts. She's seen it only a handful of times, but it’s a sacred thing to her now. A split second where her carefree, back-talking friend becomes tempered, transubstantiated. Skara watches as Boscha flexes all the muscles in her shoulders and back, rolling forth something from deep in her chest, a promise, a hope, a prayer. Boscha's eyes drift back open and Skara's breath hitches. Where the blue in Bosha’s eyes used to be the meandering calm of cloudless skies, the color now resembles the unyielding force of an oncoming storm. 

"Then, let's crush these fuckers," Boscha says. 

And Skara would follow her to the end of the Earth.

\---

They continue to wait patiently, diligently, at the start line. True to Skara's evaluation, Southside's cox takes forever to get their boat aligned, and Glandus' bow pair keeps tipping theirs.

The Banshee, by comparison, is a beacon of composure. A congregation of nine. Eight rowers and one coxswain, silently counting down the seconds. On the outside, Boscha is just as stoic as her teammates, but on the inside she’s agitated. This is her least favorite part, the waiting. She feels the wind in her hair and the power in her core and she just wants to _go_ already, but they have to jump through these asinine hoops and put up with these stupid rules to even get a chance to show off what they can do. For her, this sport has always been a needling negotiation between decorum and determination, the proper and the profane, and she knew which side she erred on.

Finally, the announcer calls out on his megaphone, “We will begin in thirty seconds, all rowers at the ready!” Each of the six boats around them immediately rumble discordantly to life, rowers sliding to their start positions in a haphazard cacophony. 

But not the Banshee.

Boscha and her crew stay stock still until the familiar click of Skara’s microphone pops on, and her voice washes over them, “Banshee, at the ready!”

Skara’s voice rings out, completely transformed by authority and amplification. Boscha feels that lone thread tug on her heart as her muscles automatically jump into action. As one, they all slide to lock their oars into place, their boat sitting pretty atop the water and undisturbed by their perfect movement. Boscha snorts as she sees Southside pitch to port as they perform a pale imitation of their practiced maneuver. With all of them at the ready, they now have only seconds to go. 

“Race starts in three….two…..one-” a gunshot fires off into the cloudless skies, and Boscha feels something flammable and glorious rise in her chest.

Skara’s voice picks up where the announcer’s left off. “THREE QUARTERS, HALF, THREE QUARTERS, THREE QUARTERS, _FULL!_ ”

Her voice is unquestionable tone, timber, and tempo as their start sequence rings out like church bells, beckoning them to erupt into motion. Boscha hits each of the strokes in stride, slicing her oar into seawater and slamming her legs into the pull. The boat roars to life underneath her as eight oars strike in unison and they charge forwards with the grace of well-practiced synchrony. This is their moment, and they will not let it be taken from them in anything so simple as the first five hundred meters. 

The start is all about speed and momentum, no power or push yet. It’s supposed to be the benediction before the burn, warm muscles not yet flaming. So, Boscha dives into the motion with an impatient hunger and she settles into the rhythm of speed and feels the wind whip through her hair. She throws herself into the movement over and over again; catch, drive, slide, catch, drive, slide. Her muscles begin to buzz and her heart races as she feels the anticipation wash out of her and the ambition kick in. She wants to go faster, _needs_ to go faster. She feels rather than chooses to start to burn just a little, and the rest of the boat matches her spark.

A start is two straight minutes of frenzied speed, but it’s over in the blink of an eye. The goal is to get moving, not to sprint in earnest yet, but Boscha’s brain doesn’t register the distinction as she feels something very base in her instincts keep stoking that spark, urging her to push harder.

“Reign it in, Stryder!”

Boscha’s eyes refocus for the first time since the gunshot, and sees Skara looking at her, concern plastered across her face. 

_Oh shit._ Boscha thinks, coherent thought returning to her once again.

Reign it in. That’s her job. She’s the stroke seat. She has to make sure they don’t burn themselves out too early. At once, she puts a lid on that spark and nods to Skara, who clicks on the mic and sits up straighter in the boat.

"Back down to race pace in five!"

Boscha tempers her fire at the sound of Skara’s voice, the only thing that could ever drown out the blood pounding in her ears. Her oar strikes the water five times and she slows her gait, reluctantly settling in for the long haul.

\---

Meanwhile, Skara’s job has only just begun. For the rowers, it’s simple. They’re seated so they can only see the distance stretching behind them, the progress they’ve made. Skara is facing forwards, taking in the challenges that lie ahead. 

She steadily calls out commands as they chew through the meters, offering a course correction here, a shout of encouragement there. She can feel the percussion of the pounding oars and plays her own part in the melody, sensing where her rowers need a boost or a lull, coaxing forth their best performance all season. She knows they still have half the race to go, but she can already feel something smiling down on them. They already passed four boats with their explosive start, and now there are only two real contenders left fighting them for the prize.

Glandus, those bastards, are a full 50 meters ahead of them. Somehow, their bow pair had pulled it together enough to get through the start, then their signature varsity lineup had taken over and powered them through the past 750 meters. Their technique is flawless, their momentum is unmatched, and they show no signs of slowing down. Skara takes a second to seethe quietly before turning her gaze to a more manageable opponent, some god-forsaken hot pink racing shell currently flagging in the lane next to them. 

Its rowers are hunched and struggling for air, but their coxswain is waving her arms and screaming. Skara squints and finds the name of the boat, the Phrenemay, printed in the same neat letters that adorn the back of the cox’s ridiculous hot pink track jacket. 

_Legacy kid_ , Skara thinks with a scowl, _her daddy probably bought her that boat_.

Skara can see the distance between the two of them shortening as the rowers in the Phrenemay lose speed and patience at a prodigious rate, but she can also feel the strength in her own boat lessening somewhat. It’s a subtle shift, but she can feel it like she can sense a wrong note coming or hear a string out of tune. Out of the start, their team is beginning to feel the toll of the race. They’re not exhausted yet, Skara would know, but they’re starting to lose some steam.

She looks back to Boscha, whose eyes are fixed on the horizon but her body is in constant motion. She looks proud, even defiant, with each stroke, sending water spraying in one direction and the boat shooting in the other. Just like she can sense their speed flagging, Skara can sense Boscha’s mood too. She wants an excuse to open up the throttle, and this is a perfect opportunity. 

Skara flicks the microphone on again, earning her a confused glance from Boscha. 

“Alright Banshee, we’re going to walk the Phrenemay! Power 10 in three…two...one...PUNCH IT!”

Boscha’s eyes light up and she has the audacity to _wink_ before she powers into the ten strokes. Skara’s heart skips a beat but the rest of the boat keeps in time as they surge forwards. The pride evaporates from Boscha’s posture as she hauls off on her oar with ferocity, urging her teammates to do the same. The rest of the boat follows suit and their surge becomes a relentless wave, closing the small gap between themselves and the Phrenemay. 

The pink boat’s coxswain turns towards Skara, but she barely has time to screech a “How dare you!” before their momentum overtakes the other boat and Skara speeds past her, offering her a pout and a petty wave in recompense. It’s unsportsmanlike, and certainly not helping their jinx, but in the heat of the moment she just can’t resist. The coxswain sputters and yells in retaliation, nearly falling out of the boat in the process, but her exhausted rowers heed her no mind. They simply let the Banshee fly by as Boscha’s push sends them sailing down the racecourse, reinvigorated and out for blood. 

They finally catch up to the wake of Glandus as Skara spots two bright red buoys bobbing 100 meters ahead of them, the marker for the final 500 meters. The sprint.

Skara turns off her microphone and waves a hand in front of Boscha’s face. The rower had settled back to race pace and was getting a glazed, far off look in her eye. Her breathing was turning ragged and her posture had begun to curl, but her strokes were still long and strong, cutting through the water with ease. Skara recognized the fatigue in the other girl, but couldn’t cut her a break. Right now, they needed to strategize.

At Skara’s wave, Boscha’s eyes light up and she quirks an eyebrow at Skara. There’s no way Boscha can talk, oxygen is a luxury at this point, but they’ve done this before countless times. They have a piecemeal language between the two of them for moments just like this.

“We gotta bump up the pace to 30 in 100 meters,” Skara tells her, “We’re almost at the final 500.”

Boscha’s eyes widen, but she shakes her head. Disagreement.

“What?” asks Skara, “You want to go higher than that?”

Boscha nods.

“Okay, thirty-two?” 

Boscha flicks her chin up.

“Higher?”

A nod.

“ _Thirty-four?_ ”

Another nod.

“Can you even do that?” asks Skara, incredulously. 

Boscha, in a true feat of coordination, manages to huff and roll her eyes while also keeping pace and breathing harder than Skara had ever seen before.

Skara is dumbfounded. Thirty is fast. Thirty-two is breakneck. Thirty-four is unheard of. For anyone else, it might be stupid to try, but somehow Skara knows Boscha has it in her. There’s something dancing in her eyes, something deep and hungry, that Skara senses could make all the difference. But it’s her call. She’s the coxswain, the conductor. 

Skara looks out and sees the red buoys creeping ever closer, and Glandus begins to speed up. She counts three seconds and does the math in her head. Glandus is moving at around a thirty-two, they could never hope to catch them if they didn’t at least match that. But thirty-four was insane, practically an insult. It would be unprecedented, unsportsmanlike, nearly as bad as....

A sly smile plays across Skara’s lips, and a plan forms in her mind.

“Tell you what,” she says, turning back to Boscha, “If you do that, and we take Glandus...I'll have us Dead Butterfly over the finish line.”

Boscha’s eyes go wide again in shock and her eyebrows furrow. _Are you serious?_

Skara winks, retaliation from before. "Make it happen, Stryder."

Boscha tries to grin but the expression gets lost somewhere in the exertion. What happens instead is a cascade of canines over a shuddering exhale. It's halfway between a laugh and a growl. And entirely appropriate. 

Skara breaks eye contact reluctantly and begins to relay new instructions to the boat over the headset. Boscha shuts her eyes and lets herself feel the tension build behind her. Skara's voice becomes a distant buzz as Boscha gathers her adrenaline and flexes her tired muscles. The sprint is the hardest part, but also her favorite. There’s no restraint, no decorum, just rowing flat out as fast as she possibly can. 

Boscha may love the race, but she _lives_ for the sprint.

Skara begins to count them down, and Boscha feels that fire start to swell again in her chest. She had kept it burning low, waiting for this moment. She feels the timbre of Skara’s voice vibrate in the boat. 

“Ten....nine...eight...”

If the start is all momentum, the sprint is all raw power. It’s about burning anything you have left in the tank, and then burning the tank for good measure.

“Seven... six...five...”

Boscha’s almost exhausted, but she’s still got something left to give.

“Four...three...two...”

And besides, she’s never been able to say no to Skara. Not once.

“ONE! We’re in the sprint!”

Boscha explodes. 

She shotguns her adrenaline and feels it send sparks flying through her veins. Something in her begins to catch fire and the feeling spreads, her muscles and nerves abuzz. She reaches deep, finding that familiar hunger in the back of her brain and sends it prowling along her arms and legs. She tightens her grip, quickens her pace, and doubles her power as she sends the Banshee into screaming speed. She feels the boat strain under the weight of what she’s asking from it, but she couldn’t stop and care if she tried. 

Her eyes are still shut, but she can hear the sound of Glandus’ boat fast approaching as they close the distance. She feels a grin curl across her mouth in between desperate lungfuls of air. She’s been waiting a whole year for another shot at this moment, and as she feels them pull alongside the other boat, something inside of her sits up and roars even as she begins to falter under her own exhaustion. Her blood pounds and her legs ache but her heart sings for the glory of it all. 

Skara’s voice bleeds into her consciousness, dragging her back into the moment. Boscha’s eyes flicker open, and she’s buffeted by outside sensation again. She sees the water flying through the air, she sees Glandys fighting them tooth and nail for a shred of their vanished lead, and she sees Skara’s deep grey eyes fixated directly on her. She’s yelling into her headset for the whole boat to hear, but somehow it feels like just the two of them in that moment as Boscha wills herself to keep moving, keep slamming her legs into the pull.

“I need you to leave it all on the racecourse, right here, right now!”

_Slam_

“We’ve trained too long and too hard to let these pricks win again!”

_Slam_

“We have the better boat, the better team, the better _everything_ , and we have _you!_ ”

_Slam_

_“_ Now lets crush these fuckers! _”_

_SLAM_

At the echo of her own words, something in Boscha flames to life again. She pulls with a strength she’s never wielded before, but knows intimately all the same. It’s the muscle memory of a different exercise. Of tearful late night phone calls before dreary early morning practices. Of punching obnoxious boys in the face to defend someone else’s honor. Of a million tiny favors freely given but never asked for.

Of being willing to do _anything_ for Skara Jubal. 

The boat shudders and jumps forwards, propelled on her unspoken promise. Out of the corner of her eye, Boscha watches as the boat next of them seems to drift backwards by sheer comparison of their own speed. They start to gain a foot, then two, then five, as she keeps up her relentless pace. Stars dance in her vision, and she honestly can’t tell if they’re from the exertion, or if it’s the reflection of the brilliant, triumphant dazzle in Skara’s eyes as she continues to yell over the microphone and their boat breaks away to open water.

They approach the checkered flags with entire boat lengths between them and Glandus, and the crowd at the finish line cheers as they close the distance. Skara’s voice is sweeping out of the speakers in the boat, but Boscha can’t make out what it is through the blood pounding in her ears and her lungs heaving in her chest, all she knows is she needs to wait for the final instruction, the ultimate blasphemy, the biggest disrespect they can give Glandys, only to be issued at the last possible second:

“DEAD BUTTERFLY!” Skara yells.

Boscha stops dead in her stroke and instead of thrusting her oar into the water, she slams it to gunnels, sticking it up out of the water and into the air. The rest of the boat follows her in perfect synchrony, turning their mad dash into a defiant coast as they roll the final few meters towards the finish line, reclined in their seats with their oars stuck out like the static wings of some swooping bird of prey. Glandus, now miles behind them, keeps rowing but they have no way to catch up, even as the Banshee loses speed with each second. 

It is a blasphemy, a sacrilege, each oar a middle finger pointed defiantly to the sky. It’s a statement of utter dominance, an articulate “fuck you” as their competitors impotently scramble to catch up.

And as the Banshee screams defiantly across the finish line, the crowd roars in laughter and outrage. The crew of the Banshee takes what breath they can muster and cheers as the melody of Skara's voice drifts out over them once again, uttering the phrase that brings relief to their exhausted limbs.

"Weigh 'nuff!" cries her voice, oddly rushed. Eight oars slap back down onto the surface of the water, and seven bodies languish in reprieve and disbelief. They had done it. The jinx had been broken. They were going home as champions.

"Hexside! Congratulations!" The announcer's voice cuts through the din of the crowd, "But you're drifting, get back in your lane!"

But the Banshee makes no move to correct its course. It slowly drifts in the water, dragged by the current as Boscha’s oar is left abandoned in its rigging, and Skara is otherwise occupied. 

Seventh seat surreptitiously rescues the loose oar and averts her gaze from the cox seat, allowing the two blasphemers some privacy for one last desecration.

Because, at the moment they crossed the finish line, the jinx had been broken and the rituals no longer applied. The race was won, the day was over, and the captain and coxswain, high on saltwater and disrespect didn’t want to wait a second longer. Boscha finally bridges the gap between them as Skara tears off her headset and tangles a hand into red hair. As they crash together, they pitch the boat off balance but barely notice. They are adrift in each other's arms, drinking in the triumph of each other and the rapture of parched lips finally meeting after dancing along the edge of the truth for so long.

It is a kiss borne out of clacking teeth, pounding blood, and gasping laughter. Punch-drunk on adrenaline, they clutch each other like they'll be torn apart at any moment. It is desperate, it is disrespectful, it is dizzying, and it is delicious. It's the best damn kiss that either have ever shared. Utterly sacrilegious, but it sanctifies the moment all the same.

Because all the priests of old got it wrong, victory doesn't taste sweet or sour or anything so simple. 

It tastes like the salt of brackwater flying boldly through the air.

It tastes like the heat of sunburnt summer days pounding overhead. 

It tastes like the cool pressure of gold medals weighing heavy on triumphant shoulders.

But above all else:

It tastes like the sheer _delight_ of kissing sweat-drenched delirium from your best friend's lips, both adrift in open waters but somehow, finally, home.

**Author's Note:**

> This one is fealty for our Skarscha Em-press, the lovely hyacinth. May your reign be long and plentiful and may our tiny little cult create some more fun blasphemies :D
> 
> Also if you dig Skarscha, theres a zine in the works! Get more info [here](https://docs.google.com/forms/d/e/1FAIpQLSckSAvLB35YAU_H18wfOQZg9Zpm8yKYIhjxz8Rcq9-y4ysgPA/viewform)!


End file.
